


No Good Will Come Of This

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gabriel Is The Worst Messenger, Humor, M/M, Ominous Wicker Baskets, Surprise Gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley and Aziraphale's very nice morning is interrupted by an uninvited guest, and an unwanted present.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 86
Kudos: 525





	No Good Will Come Of This

It's early enough that no self-respecting bookshop should be open, but Crowley wakes up to find Aziraphale gone anyway, the other side of the bed missing anything warm to curl around, or get inside the pyjamas of. The angel has wandered off somewhere, probably in search of breakfast, or tea, or to reorganise books that may have chosen to spend the night flitting from shelf to shelf doing indecent things with other books. Because Crowley's still not entirely convinced that some of Aziraphale's oldest volumes haven't developed sentience. He's warned him to stop stroking them but does he listen, no, no he does not.

Still, it seems like a waste to stay in bed by himself, so Crowley slithers himself upright, snaps himself into something less sleep-rumpled - minus the glasses, because there's no one here but the two of them - and heads downstairs.

He follows the sound of quiet muttering, and the occasional productive-sounding rustle, into the open area of the shop, where he finds Aziraphale at his desk, carefully opening envelopes with a snake-handled letter opener. The angel looks up when he hears him, smiles around a noise of surprised pleasure and pushes his chair back.

"I wasn't sure whether you were getting up today or not." Aziraphale turns briefly to retrieve the two mugs that had been steaming gently beside him. "I'm on my second, but I kept yours warm in case you decided to join me."

Crowley's not sure he'll ever get used to this, to all the things they're allowed to do now. He takes the cup of coffee and leans in for a kiss - only to be interrupted by a flash of lightning that briefly illuminates the whole shop. The rush of displaced air sends a shower of dust from the spines of a thousand books, and the papers on Aziraphale's desk flutter to the floor in the wave. 

Crowley immediately turns towards the threat, and so does Aziraphale. They briefly smack into each other trying to instinctively shield the other from harm. Aziraphale ends up with coffee down one sleeve, and Crowley sends a stack of books sliding off the table next to him. They're left braced against each other in a riot of falling books and dust, to face their uninvited guest.

Which is none other than the Archangel Gabriel. He's left himself standing in a shaft of bright light, which is in no way natural this early in the morning, as if he can't fathom not being the centre of attention. He looks like a shop mannequin suddenly given life, the world's squarest peg in his grey suit and ugly tie. Crowley could have gone an entire lifetime without seeing his smug, self-righteous expression ever again. He's briefly tempted to throw his steaming coffee straight in Gabriel's face, but he doesn't want to make the first offensive move if this is a situation they can talk their way out of. Aziraphale looks like he's thinking the same thing, though Crowley notices that he's now holding both his mug of tea and the snake-handled letter opener. The thought that the love of his life may actually be prepared to stab the Archangel Gabriel in the throat to protect him is...well, it's definitely something. 

"Greetings Principality Aziraphale and Demon Crowley," Gabriel booms, giving their names proper enunciation and everything. Crowley's ears do not enjoy that particular holy register, and he can't help but hiss discomfort when subjected to it. Honestly, they're not _humans_ , the purple-eyed bastard doesn't have to do the official messenger voice.

Aziraphale clears his throat pointedly, and Gabriel seems to realise the classical approach is inappropriate under these circumstances - whatever those bloody circumstances are. He pauses, before continuing at a slightly lower volume, and without all the extra bells and whistles. 

"Be not afraid, I come to you in peace," he says, though it feels a lot like the 'in peace' part was neither his idea, nor something he agreed with. His own feelings on the matter look a lot like indigestion. 

"Forgive us if we find that somewhat hard to believe," Aziraphale says cautiously, in the same voice he uses with overly persistent customers. Crowley is busy encouraging hearing back into his left ear with a finger, but he grunts agreement.

Gabriel lifts what he's holding, which neither of them had noticed, since it'd previously been obscured by a bench full of books and an antique globe. What he's holding is a brown, wicker basket, all creaky handles and fold-down lid. Crowley freezes, Aziraphale freezes too, his cup of tea listing far enough to splash warm liquid against his fingers. Because the last time there was a basket involved, the world had almost ended. The last time a wicker basket had been introduced into their lives, they'd both fought, and hurt each other, and come very close to complete destruction. Crowley can feel icy warnings creeping up his spine, the handle of his cup squeaking in his grip, and he forces himself to stop clenching it. He's developed a threat response towards picnic baskets, this is just fantastic.

Gabriel carefully sets the lidded basket down on the table before him, with a soft, rustling creak, then pushes it pointedly and dramatically in their direction. Both of them lean just a fraction away from the thing, a little more tea spills out of Aziraphale's cup.

The Archangel looks briefly annoyed at their lack of gratitude or enthusiasm.

"This is for the both of you," he tells them, with what Crowley thinks is just a bit too much emphasis. It feels a lot like Gabriel is reading from a statement prepared for him by Heaven, and he was under strict instructions to deliver every word as it was written, and add none of his own opinions on the matter. "I was chosen for this special task, to be the messenger of glad tidings, and to bring you a gift from Heaven. As a reward for your steadfast refusal to waver from the Almighty's plan, and for your efforts to protect and preserve Her creation."

Crowley makes an unhappy, protesting noise at that, not sure if it should really apply to him as well. He honestly didn't do a lot of preserving, not really, and he doesn't particularly want a reward from anyone upstairs. Though most of his attention isn't on Gabriel any more. He can't quite make himself look away from the basket, which is still an ominous and foreboding wicker-y shape, between two relatively innocuous piles of books. The basket is eerily quiet, though Crowley tells himself that means nothing. Things could be sleeping in there. 

"May it bring you joy and satisfaction," Gabriel forces out, between his big, stupid teeth.

Then the bastard has the temerity to just vanish into nothing. No lightning dragging him back to Heaven, no personal apology for trying to murder Aziraphale, no goodbye, no staying around to answer what Crowley suspects will be very pertinent fucking questions. It's the least dramatic exit Crowley has ever seen an angel make. 

He leaves the basket behind, because of course he does.

"Crowley." Aziraphale says his name quietly but firmly, as if the angel's expecting him to deal with this, somehow. Crowley would very much like to point out that he dealt with the last one, and look how that turned out. But he never has been able to say no to Aziraphale.

"Yeah," he strangles out through his teeth, at a lower volume than he normally would, because - _basket_.

"Should we?" Aziraphale asks warily, he makes a gesture towards the possible object of their doom. "Do you think?"

Well, considering the alternative is to stand here holding rapidly cooling beverages for the rest of time, then probably, yes, they should probably - yes. 

"'Spose we'd better," he grates out reluctantly. "We don't want to leave it there where - don't want to - I mean, if we don't like what's in it we could send it back, right?" Maybe put it on Heaven's doorstep with an apologetic note. Thanks for the thought - but no.

"I don't think you can _return_ a gift from Heaven." Aziraphale sounds pained, but he shuffles a step closer. 

"Poke it," Crowley tells him.

Aziraphale takes a breath and then huffs it out in annoyance.

"I'm not going to poke it, Crowley."

No, he's not going to poke it, he's not going to poke it in case it makes it _cry_ \- oh, those unholy bastards from upstairs are going to have the last laugh aren't they? Crowley knew this was all going too well. He knew this was all too good to be true, they couldn't even wait three bloody months before springing some sort of terrifying ineffable bullshit on them, and Crowley will have to protect Aziraphale again, if only from his own stubborn sense of duty and responsibility.

Aziraphale takes another step, and now he's more than close enough to lift a hand and prise the lid up on one side and find out for certain. Crowley wishes he would just get it over with - and then immediately wishes the exact opposite, wishes that he could grab hold of Aziraphale and drag him away from the thing, miracle them both a thousand miles away from here. But his stupid, stubborn angel is compelled now, tugging down his waistcoat in a way that feels fortifying, and carefully sliding a pile of books out of the way.

"Angel, just - just be careful. You don't know what's in there."

Aziraphale's hand hovers in mid-air for a second, something of Crowley's cautious paranoia clearly finding a home in him. 

"Oh, for Heaven's sake." The angel reaches up and flips the lid open, before cautiously bending at the waist to look inside the basket. "Oh." Aziraphale's eyes widen in surprise and delight, and Crowley's stomach drops half way to Hell.

He braces himself for the worst. "Angel, is it -"

"It's a basket of fruit!" Aziraphale exclaims with delight.

Crowley's body stops trying to turn itself inside out, mouth twisting down into a confused frown.

" _What_?" It's a long, stunned exhale of a word, not sure whether he should believe him or not.

"Fruit," Aziraphale confirms, with a smile and a hum of interest, one hand reaching down into the thing to pull out what turns out to be a pear. He makes a pleased noise and squeezes it gently, testing its ripeness, before reaching back into the basket to pull out a bunch of grapes. "A rather generous selection at that." There's another noise of discovery. "Oh, and look, peaches as well, how lovely."

Crowley takes a few, halting steps forward, so he can lean over Aziraphale's shoulder. The basket is indeed filled with fruit, both seasonal and exotic. A riot of colour and natural sugar crammed tetris-like into the basket's large interior - not a miraculous, or even infernal, baby to be found. He stares at the piled fruit for a moment in suspicious mistrust, before reaching in and picking up a pomegranate.

"It's fruit?" he agrees. He's not quite sure why his voice makes that a question, as if he's still waiting for the punchline. "Also I can hear you eating it, you didn't think to maybe be a tad suspicious of the food sent to you from Heaven, honestly, angel?"

Aziraphale looks a little ashamed at least. He licks strawberry juice off his thumb, in a way that Crowley refuses to get distracted by. 

"There's a note." Crowley lifts the envelope between two, long fingers. It has both their names on it in fine, liquid-gold calligraphy. Which brings to mind angel blood in a way Crowley finds to be in exceptionally bad taste.

He flips the thing open and tugs out the stiff paper inside.

" _Principality Aziraphale and Demon Crowley, please accept this gift, which we understand is a customary offering of apology and reparation. It has been made aware to us all that we overstepped in our sacred duties, and dared to put our own truths and ambitions ahead of the true will of the Almighty. Please accept our apology and know that Heaven bears you no ill will, and will make no further demands on you. Allowances will be made for unlimited miracles, and new corporations will be provided as and when necessary._ "

The very last part can't be read in English, and Crowley doesn't fancy the sting it'll leave on his tongue all morning. He turns the paper around, so Aziraphale can read the end himself. 

"Oh, that's rather binding," Aziraphale says slowly. "The consequences for breaking that promise would be very unpleasant." 

Crowley grunts suspicion, because it wouldn't be the first time the feathery bastards have found themselves a loophole, and he wouldn't put it past them, even after getting a spanking by God Herself. He pokes towards the deepest layers of fruit, unwilling to take any of this at face value. His finger hits the bottom of the basket, nail scratching wicker, and finding nothing.

"That's it," he says, sounding both surprised and annoyed. "It is actually a fruit basket. Heaven sent us a bloody fruit basket."

"I was briefly rather worried there," Aziraphale admits, as if it hadn't been blindingly fucking obvious.

"Did you think it was a baby as well?" Crowley mutters, mostly out the side of his mouth.

"I very much did, yes." Aziraphale says, with a guilty sort of relief. "Gave me quite a fright, I can tell you."

"It's the basket," Crowley explains, giving it a disgruntled flick. "It's the same as the one the Antichrist came in, bastards probably did it on purpose. Eh, I suppose it could have been worse, could have been Hastur bringing it with tidings from Hell and all that."

Aziraphale pulls a face at the thought. Crowley doesn't blame him, he wouldn't eat anything that had been exposed to Hell's atmosphere, definitely nothing that had been anywhere near Hastur. 

"And considering the rate we've been jamming our corporations together like we're trying to start fires, an unexpected and miraculous child would have been the perfect cosmic joke to play on us," Crowley points out. Not that he regrets a single moment of their new and exciting desire to combine in as many ways as physically possibly (and not just physically, though they have to be a little more careful in their original forms, because enfolding like that tends to give Crowley the holy equivalent of friction burns.)

"I don't think Heaven would consider that a particularly funny joke," Aziraphale protests. "Though our situation is certainly unique. As far as we know, no angel and demon have ever been in love before, have never...well, _expressed_ that love before. Spontaneous pregnancies for couples thought to be incapable of them are something of a theme upstairs, after all."

Crowley scowls at him, because that's not helping the situation, that's not helping at all. 

"You realise that's a fantastic way to never get your dick in me ever again," Crowley complains, rather than having any opinion on Aziraphale basically admitting that he loves him while neither of them were currently naked.

"Darling, I'm quite certain that no pregnancies ever resulted from what we did last night," Aziraphale points out, in that tone that sounds like it's being reassuring, but is clearly also finding him deeply amusing.

"I'm not joking, Aziraphale, if there's even a -" Crowley's forced to stop talking when Aziraphale pops a strawberry into his mouth. He makes a grumbling noise of protest around the fruit, but Aziraphale just smiles and pushes his mouth shut with a thumb. Forcing Crowley to sample Heaven's grovelling fruit apology. He's willing to admit that it's pretty good, as strawberries go. But Aziraphale has always enjoyed eating more than him.

"I think it's probably best if we enjoy their fruit, and their promise not to bother us again, and don't give them any more ideas," Aziraphale decides. 

Crowley chews and swallows before answering.

"I still would have preferred it if you'd stabbed him with the letter opener," he says honestly, and refuses to feel bad about it. "It's not like the bastard didn't deserve it."

Aziraphale hums something that isn't even pretending to be chastising, and lifts the basket.

"That would have made it very difficult for me to take you upstairs and see what obscene things the both of us can get up to with a basket of fruit, an inhuman amount of stamina and six thousand years of creativity."

And Crowley is immediately forced to think about that, about the wide selection of fruit, and Aziraphale's beautiful, adventurous body, every sensitive, generous, greedy inch of it. He thinks of all of it covered in sticky fruit juices and smashed pulp - and he suddenly has no other plans for the entire day. 

"I could be persuaded to join you," Crowley offers hoarsely, with his absolute best expression of fake-reluctance. 

Aziraphale slides a finger into the loop of his jeans and pulls.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] No Good Will Come Of This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23325463) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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